Moonlight Plains

by Barbara Hannay

  But even with the two of them searching, there was no sign of the dollar.

  ‘It must have slipped through a crack,’ Ed said finally, as he got to his feet once more.

  ‘I suppose I could try to crawl under the house.’ Kitty said this almost to herself, but she knew there would be spiders and possibly snakes under there, as well as puddles after all the rain. Was she brave enough?

  Ed didn’t take her up on the offer. He was standing by Bobby’s bed now, his face filled with sorrow as he looked down at him. ‘Hey, Bobby,’ he said gently.

  There was no response and Ed once again reached for Bobby’s wrist. ‘Hey, buddy.’

  Kitty held her breath as she watched the growing concern in Ed’s eyes. This time she didn’t dare to ask.

  Ed’s expression was distraught as he released Bobby’s limp wrist and felt for a pulse in his neck.

  A beat later, he turned to Kitty, his face a picture of horrified despair. ‘I can’t find anything.’

  No.

  ‘I – I think he’s gone.’

  ‘No, Ed. He can’t be.’

  ‘There’s no pulse.’

  ‘But what about his breathing? Isn’t he breathing?’

  Ed leaned down with his ear close to Bobby’s mouth. ‘I can’t hear anything. I can’t feel any breath.’

  Terror filled Kitty’s chest, rising and swirling like a tempest. ‘What about a mirror? I’m sure I’ve seen people do that in a film. They hold up a mirror to the person’s mouth.’

  There was a hand mirror in her great-uncle’s bedroom. It had been her great-aunt’s. ‘I’ll fetch a mirror.’

  ‘Kitty, no, don’t –’

  She heard the remonstrance in Ed’s voice, but she ignored it and charged from the room. The mirror was on the dressing table that stood in a bay window in her great-uncle’s bedroom. Such a pretty, feminine mirror, with a silver handle and pink roses painted on its back.

  Snatching it up, she rushed back to Bobby.

  Ed was standing at the end of his bed.

  ‘Here.’ She shoved the mirror into his hand.

  ‘Kitty,’ he said gently. ‘There’s no need.’

  ‘Of course there’s a need.’ Her voice leapt on a high note of panic.

  Ed set the mirror on the bed and took her by the shoulders, gently but firmly. ‘Kitty, I’m sorry. Bobby’s gone.’

  ‘No.’ Vehemently, she shook her head. She wanted to pull herself out of Ed’s grasp, wanted to push him away, push his words away. But when she looked up, she saw the fierce pain in Ed’s eyes and the silver glitter of tears.

  ‘No,’ she whispered. She didn’t want to believe it. She couldn’t believe it. Dropping out of Ed’s grasp, she fell to her knees again. ‘I’ll find the dollar and he’ll be all right.’

  ‘Don’t,’ Ed said gently.

  Desperation clawed at her. She had to find the dollar.

  ‘Come here,’ Ed said, reaching down to take hold of her elbow.

  Now she was crying. ‘But we have to find it.’

  ‘Not now.’ Gently but deliberately Ed pulled her to her feet.

  She shot a furtive glance at the bed where Bobby lay very still with his bright-blue eyes closed. His broad Polish face with its high cheekbones and soft, boyish lips was eerily white.

  Ed drew her against him.

  She heard his heart pounding beneath her ear. Without warning, her legs gave way and she clutched at his shirt. His arms came round her and she began to weep against his chest, noisily, messily. She was terribly afraid that she might never be able to stop.

  18

  Townsville, 2013

  Kitty was in a low mood on the day she learned about the letter from America. It was one of those days when she longed to be free of the constraints of her ageing body, to be done with over-friendly jolly nurses and the dour fragile inmates of the nursing home, one of those days when she couldn’t forget the gloomy fact that she and the other old folk were all here waiting to die.

  She knew she should be grateful that she’d lived a long life and that she wasn’t like poor Dulcie White, Sally’s grandmother, who had no real idea of where she was now or why. She knew that she should remember with gratitude the busy, laughter-filled days of the past when she and Andy had raised their large and lively brood at Moonlight Plains.

  Today, however, she felt frustrated by her feebleness and annoyed that she was unable to walk without hanging onto someone or something, and that she had to eat what was put in front of her, like a helpless child.

  When Luke telephoned her with the news about the American letter, she was thinking about how nice it would be to just pop off in her sleep as Andy had. It took her a good couple of minutes to understand.

  ‘It’s been sent to Kitty Martin, not Mathieson,’ Luke said, somewhat bemused. ‘And the address is care of Moonlight Plains,’

  ‘Martin was my maiden name,’ Kitty managed to tell him. She spoke calmly enough, but her heart was instantly quaking.

  ‘Would you like me to forward it to you via Mum?’ Luke asked. ‘Or will I post it straight to the nursing home?’

  ‘Oh, send it here.’ Kitty spoke too brusquely, but if her daughter Virginia got wind of this letter she would only ask awkward questions.

  The questions rushing about in Kitty’s head were bad enough.

  After Luke’s call, she was a mass of nerves. She knew in her bones that the letter was either from Ed, or about Ed.

  Deep down, despite the long seventy years of silence, she had always known that something like this letter would come one day.

  Perhaps the feeling had been born of a foolish longing, but she’d secretly hoped that someday her unvoiced questions would finally be answered, that at last, she would know what Ed Langley had done with the rest of his life.

  There’d been so many times, despite her surprisingly happy marriage – probably happier than she’d deserved – when she’d wondered whether Ed had stayed in Boston, whether he’d married and fulfilled his family’s expectations . . . whether he’d occasionally remembered her . . . or mentioned her to anyone.

  Perhaps it was just as well that she hadn’t died yet.

  But along with her questions, she’d also harboured fears that Ed might try to track her down, when she’d decided that their lives after the war should remain quite separate. Now, it seemed, the day she’d both longed for and feared had arrived. A letter from America was about to be delivered. Luke had said the sender’s name was Laura Langley Fox, so there was definitely a Langley connection.

  Was she Ed’s daughter, perhaps?

  Did this mean that Ed had died? Or had he died years ago?

  So many questions. So many possibilities and memories danced ceaselessly in Kitty’s head, and for twenty-four hours she’d waited for the letter’s arrival with a mixture of trepidation, curiosity and nervous exhaustion.

  Eventually, mid-morning, Marcie, a plump young nurse with mousey hair and a round, freckled face, appeared at Kitty’s door waving an envelope.

  ‘Look what’s come for you.’

  Kitty was out of bed and sitting in a chair by the window. Marcie was all smiles as she bounced into the room.

  ‘Would you like me to slit the envelope open for you, Kitty?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, dear.’

  Kitty knew her own arthritic hands weren’t up to the task, and her heart had developed an alarming flutter. She tried to take steady, calming breaths as she watched Marcie take a nail file from her hip pocket and slit the fine paper crease. She was grateful that her hands weren’t shaking too badly as she accepted the thin blue rectangle.

  She saw that the original handwritten address had been crossed out and readdressed in Luke’s scrawl.

  ‘So, can you read it okay?’ Marcie asked. ‘Or would you like me to read it for you?’

  Kitty did very little reading these days, mainly because her hands were so painful that she found holding a book difficult. However, she certainly didn’t want to share the co
ntents of this letter. ‘I’ll manage, thank you, dear.’

  Marcie decided to refill her water jug and Kitty had to watch her with churning impatience, waiting until she’d left before she took the thin pages from the envelope.

  Skipping the address and date, her eyes flew straight to the message.

  Dear Ms Martin,

  I’m writing on the slim chance that this might find you, because I wanted to let you know that my father, Edward Langley, died in March this year.

  Oh.

  Kitty had almost expected this, but it was still a shock. A shock, too, to know that Ed had been alive all this time. All these years.

  Her shaking hands made the letter hard to read and she had to steady them in her lap, leaning forward to read on . . .

  My father’s death was unexpected but quick, for which we were grateful, and the funeral was held in the church where he and my mother were married and where my brothers and I were christened. The service was very well attended.

  I believe that you met my father in 1942 when his plane crashed at Moonlight Plains during the war in the Pacific, and I understand that the two of you became quite close for a time, which is why I thought you should know of his passing.

  I hope that you have lived a long and fulfilling life, just as my father has, and that this letter finds you and your family in good health.

  I’m enclosing another letter that I found among my father’s papers. For some reason it was never posted, but I believe it was written to you.

  With my best wishes,

  Laura Langley Fox

  Another letter?

  Kitty was struggling to take in so much news all at once. She found it hard to believe there was a letter to her from Ed.

  She needed several deep breaths before she dared to turn the page. Her mind had already flashed back to the past, bringing memories of being nineteen again, at Moonlight Plains . . . making her fearful way across a rain-drenched paddock towards a crashed plane . . . and then, in the gathering dusk, a dark-haired man as handsome as a film star . . .

  Oh, dear.

  She had to take off her glasses and reach for a tissue to dab at her streaming eyes. She was trembling with both fear and hope as she finally set the sodden tissue aside and began to read Ed’s letter.

  Boston, 1969

  Dearest Kitty,

  We had a family photograph taken last week to mark our twentieth wedding anniversary. Today several copies arrived for our inspection, and looking at them I think Rose and I are weathering pretty well. Of course our three children, two sons and a daughter, look vibrant and are bouncing with good health.

  Actually, I don’t suppose Ed Junior thinks of himself as a child any more. He’s eighteen – old enough to go to war.

  He has no idea what that might mean, does he, Kitty?

  If I’d retained the faith of my forefathers, I would pray each night that my son isn’t caught up in the new war in Vietnam. But I fear I lost my faith during our war. I can no longer believe in the power of prayer or divine intervention. I’ve turned to philosophy and existentialism instead.

  Your grandfather would roll in his grave, wouldn’t he, Kitty?

  See how much about you I remember?

  Now, looking at this family photo, I can’t help wondering how you look now. Have the decades been kind to you? Have you been happy? Do you have a son or sons? Do you fear for them?

  Regrettably, I have moments, now and then, when I can’t recall your face. I panic then, Kitty, but the harder I try, the more your loveliness eludes me. I hate those moments.

  Usually, to my intense relief, an image of you eventually slides back into focus and once again you’re with me.

  In my memory, you are still nineteen and your hair is long and wavy, the colour of rich, dark honey. Your skin is fair and finely textured, with a soft delicate bloom unmarred by make-up. There’s a little bump on the bridge of your nose that stops you from being too perfectly pretty. Instead you are my Kitty, which is so much better. And then there’s that rather determined set to your chin, my dear, and your eyes so very bright and sparkling grey.

  I’ve got you right, haven’t I, Kitty?

  Ah, well . . .

  I hope you’re happy. In fact I hope you’re at least as happy as I am. It’s a huge relief to be able to tell you that I am, in all honesty, happy.

  I send you my love, Kitty, and every good wish.

  Ed

  For the longest time Kitty simply sat, staring at the letter.

  It was incredible to receive words from Ed after all this time. Wonderful words. Words written by his hand. Words that brought inevitable sorrow and longing, but also, thank heavens, brought peace to her heart.

  She knew she would read this page again, but for now she just wanted to sit here in the sunlight, while she waited for her clamouring heartbeat to steady, and while she thought about the letter and the ways her world had shifted in just a few short minutes.

  It was amazing to know after so long that Ed had remembered her and thought about her often, just as she’d remembered him . . .

  And it was reassuring to know that he’d been happily married with a family – his wife Rose and his sons and a daughter. At least, Ed had said he was happy at the time of writing, and Kitty was pleased and relieved to know that. She’d been happy, too . . . She wished she could tell Ed that.

  Do you have a son or sons? Do you fear for them?

  That question had given her pause, but he’d been referring to the Vietnam War, of course – Aussies and Yanks fighting alongside each other once more – and naturally, both Kitty and Andy had been fearful, especially when the birthday ballot for National Service had been introduced.

  Miraculously, none of their boys had been drawn in the ballot, and after Andy’s own wartime experiences, he certainly hadn’t encouraged them to become professional soldiers . . .

  So that was one fear Kitty had been spared.

  If she could reply to Ed’s letter, she’d tell him about Andy and the simple pleasures that had enriched her life – about her family and the excited anticipation with which she’d approached her pregnancies, the joy she’d experienced in caring for her children when they were little, and then later, the fun of sharing the life on the land with them.

  It hadn’t all been a bed of roses, of course. There’d been long days of horseriding and cattle work as well as housework, and worrying times with drought and floods, and her children’s inevitable illnesses and accidents. But there’d been wonderful times of relaxation and laughter, too: campfires on the riverbank, birthday parties on the verandah, the excitement of visitors or trips into town.

  She would tell him proudly about her daughter Virginia’s happy marriage to Peter Fairburn from Mullinjim Station, and then she would surprise him with the list of her strapping sons.

  Her eldest son, Jim, named after her great-uncle at Moonlight Plains, was a lawyer in Brisbane these days, although he still retained an interest in the family’s cattle business.

  Her next two sons, Robert and Andrew, were running their respective cattle properties at Richmond and Julia Creek. Kitty hadn’t been too disappointed when her younger sons rejected life on the land, like their older brother Jim. And of course she would tell Ed about the twins, who’d come last, as a total surprise – an accident, a happy one, of course.

  Kitty hadn’t been too disappointed when her youngest sons both rejected life on the land. She would have enjoyed telling Ed that Ian was now a very successful chef in Sydney, while Mitch was living in London of all places, an accomplished photographer with one of the city’s top newspapers.

  Six children . . . who would have thought?

  Again she looked down at Ed’s letter and let out a long, surprisingly satisfied sigh. She’d been worried that he might bring a long-held fear to the surface, but now she knew these pages held no threat.

  Her hands were no longer shaking as she folded the thin sheets and slipped them back inside the envelope. She knew now that
she would read Ed’s letter over and over, and each time it would bring her fresh peace and only the most tender of regrets . . .

  19

  Moonlight Plains, 1942

  ‘I don’t know how to lay out a body.’

  If Kitty had felt inadequate when Bobby was injured, she was completely at a loss in the face of his death. She was stunned, left feeling empty and useless, and sad, so darned sad.

  She’d never seen anyone die. She’d been ten when her parents had died of tuberculosis, and they’d both been in hospital for weeks beforehand, so she’d witnessed very little of their illness. In the nine years since then, she’d rarely attended a funeral.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Ed told her. ‘This isn’t your responsibility. I’ll have to bury him here, Kitty. Later, people from my unit will come out and move him to our military cemetery in Townsville.’ His jaw tightened and pain crept into his eyes.

  Kitty nodded, not wanting to speak for fear she’d start sobbing again.

  ‘When this damn war’s over, Uncle Sam will take him home,’ Ed said dully.

  She tried to imagine how Bobby’s family would react when the news finally reached them. It was too sad to contemplate. She’d only known him for a day, and yet she felt as if she’d lost a good friend.

  She insisted on washing his face, hands and feet and combing his short fair hair. These simple tasks were both terrifying and consoling. When they were over, she fetched one of her great-aunt’s mended sheets to wrap him in. Then they closed the bedroom door.

  Now the long day stretched in front of them.

  Needing to keep busy, they went out into the hot, bright morning and Kitty showed Ed the toolshed, where the picks and shovels were stored. She stood nervously twisting her hands as he set to work digging a shallow grave.

  It was almost a relief to remember that Dolly was waiting to be milked. Having spent six weeks at Moonlight Plains, Kitty had finally got the hang of milking, and today there was something almost soothing about the everyday task of brushing Dolly’s flanks and washing her teats to make sure that no sand or loose hair fell into the shiny clean pail.